The Christmas Case
by Mandelene
Summary: The boys are coming over for Christmas, which means Francis must go to great lengths to make it a perfect holiday, but when Alfred and Matthew get into an argument over a case they're both involved in at work and there's an accident in the kitchen, he must accept that things don't always go according to plan. (One-shot)


**Author's Note:** Merry Christmas, everyone! This story was requested on my Tumblr as a quick one-shot idea. Hope you enjoy it! Alfred and Matthew are lawyers, except Matthew works in environmental law and Alfred is a corporate lawyer for an oil company, which makes the tension between them pretty palpable.

* * *

"Did you vacuum in the living room like I asked you to?"

"Yes."

"And you wrapped the rest of those gifts that were on the left-hand side of the closet?"

"Yes, you've already asked me about it three times…Francis, you've been cooking for hours, perhaps I could give you a hand with something?"

Francis stops stirring the French onion soup he plans to serve as an appetizer to direct the harshest scowl he can muster at his husband. It's Christmas, and the boys are bound to be here any minute, which means everything must be perfect. Last night, he made Arthur promise to stay out of the way, and he's been assigning him menial tasks just to make certain he doesn't get any ideas and break his promise.

" _Non_ , you are not allowed to step _one foot_ into this kitchen. Do you understand? Last time I let you help, you managed to burn my lemon tart because you set the oven to the wrong temperature, and I'm not going to risk another accident like that again."

"You're never going to let that go, are you? At least let me chop some vegetables—something I can't possibly ruin."

"Arthur, _mon cher_ , if there's anything I've learned over our twenty-five years spent together, it's that you're capable of causing a culinary catastrophe even if I just ask you to boil some potatoes. Please stay out of my kitchen. Put some Christmas carols on, do some last minute cleaning, call the boys and find out where they are—anything as long as you do it far, far, _far_ away from my food. It's for your safety and our collective sanity."

Arthur makes a show of looking offended, but it's hard to take him seriously when he's wearing the unsightly Christmas sweater Alfred bought him last year. It's tacky and too brightly colored, but Arthur insisted on putting it on this morning, going on and on about how Alfred would hold a grudge against him if he didn't wear the hideous sweater at least once.

"I'm sorry, Arthur, truly. I don't do this to upset you. I do it out of love," Francis tries to placate him, and Arthur can't be too angry because although he still has a sour look on his face, he doesn't make a snide remark.

Fortunately, he doesn't get the opportunity to brood for too long anyway, seeing as no more than twenty minutes later, the front door comes bursting open as Alfred sweeps inside, an army of Christmas presents and bags packed in the enclosure of his arms. He's wearing a Santa hat, his boots are coated with a thick layer of snow, and his glasses are fogged up from the drastic temperature change between the indoors and outdoors.

"Merry Christmas, dudes!" Alfred shouts, stomping into the foyer. "Santa told me to drop these things off. You guys made it on his nice list, apparently."

Arthur takes a number of the gifts from him and tells him to take off his sodden shoes before he even thinks about going into the living room, and that's when he notices Matthew is standing outside as well, arms laden with just as many presents.

"Hi, Dad! Merry Christmas," Matthew murmurs softly.

"Merry Christmas to you as well, my boy," Arthur says before he gives him a warm hug and goes through the same process he went through with Alfred.

Once he has taken the boys' coats and made certain that their shoes have been left in a good place to dry, he joins them in the living room, where Francis is now assaulting the twins with hugs followed by kisses on their rosy cheeks.

"Merry Christmas! Did you both have a good flight? It's slushy and awful outside, but I'm so glad you both made it in time," Francis fusses, petting their heads and straightening out the wrinkles in their clothes before he retires back to the kitchen to check on whatever it is he's concocting. Thus, he leaves Arthur with the role of being a host.

"Would you boys like any tea or coffee?" Arthur offers at once, as it is second-nature to him by now.

Alfred nods, and the pompom on his Santa hat bobs up and down merrily. "Yeah, coffee for me."

"I'll have some tea, please," Matthew adds.

Arthur swivels around and is about to go to set the kettle and the coffeemaker—he's sure that's a satisfactory enough excuse for Francis to momentarily let him into the kitchen, but then, something dawns upon him and he has to pause to think it over.

And that realization is that Alfred and Matthew are sitting five feet apart from one another on opposite ends of the couch instead of being joined together at the hip like they normally are. In fact, he's pretty certain the boys haven't even _glanced_ at each other since they walked in.

"Errm, boys? Is everything all right?" he ventures to ask, and that's when he notices that Alfred is also wearing an ugly Christmas sweater that's not much different from his own. Matthew, meanwhile, is wearing black trousers and a button-down dress shirt, just like Francis. Like father, like son, he supposes.

"What? Is something supposed to be wrong?" Alfred fires back a little too quickly and with a hint of aggression.

"No, but…You both seem rather upset. Did something happen?"

Matthew scowls at Alfred and crosses his arms over his chest. "Yeah, something did happen. Something pretty awful."

Arthur knits his brows together and waits for an explanation, and when he doesn't get one from Alfred, he stares at Matthew until the boy breaks and spills the secret.

"Alfred's about to let another oil rig be built off the coast," Matthew mumbles, "and I'm not going to let that happen. It'll destroy the marine ecosystem."

"This is about work? Boys, it's Christmas. Whatever feuds you may have between one another, can you save them both for the courtroom and allow us to have a peaceful holiday?"

"How am I supposed to celebrate a peaceful holiday when my brother is killing a bunch of innocent sea otters?"

At that, Alfred riles up and shouts, "Hey! That oil rig will bring in jobs, okay? Residents of that area have mouths to feed, and what's more important, human lives or the otters?"

"Both. Those people can find jobs someplace else. Those are dirty jobs your company is offering them anyway."

"It's not my company. I _represent_ the oil company as their attorney, there's a difference, bro. They have the right to build whatever they wanna build there," Alfred insists, and the volume of his voice gets louder and louder with every word.

Matthew glares. "Not if it violates environmental protections that have been put into place."

"Boys, please," Arthur cuts in, trying to defuse the argument.

It makes sense now—the two of them have been put on the same case and are facing off against one another right in the heart of the holiday season—what a terrible coincidence. He didn't ask for his children to become lawyers on opposite ends of the spectrum. He sees both of their points, but if he tells them they're both right, that's not going to cool them down. "Let's separate our personal lives from the professional workplace, all right?"

"But the professional workplace changes how I think about my personal life," Matthew continues, refusing to let this go. "Innocent animals are going to die. The water will be contaminated. The surrounding neighborhoods will be impacted, and who knows what other consequences might come out of this? My brother is willing to defend a morally corrupt corporate entity that's only trying to make a profit, even if it means that profit is going to come at a great cost. He should refuse to represent them in court. He should stand up for what's right, and if he can't do that, then how am I supposed to look at him?"

Alfred rolls his eyes and looks to Arthur for backup. "But see, he's only looking at things from one perspective—from his own echo chamber. The world still needs oil, Matt. There's a demand for it, and that's not my fault. Someone's gotta dig it up, and it can't be helped. Of course, I don't want the environment to be ruined, but we've also gotta be practical here. If the company I represent doesn't build it, then some other company will take advantage of the opportunity."

"But at least the blood won't be on your hands," Matthew grumbles.

Arthur has heard enough. He needs to put a stop to this. "That's it. If you don't both drop the issue this minute, then you cannot stay for dinner. I'm asking you one last time to put your differences aside for at least a few hours. Understood?"

The boys shrink under his stern gaze and lower their heads in shame. Arthur thinks he may have finally gotten through to them, but Alfred, always one to want the last word, adds fuel to the fire yet again.

"The otters can just move to another part of the ocean."

"That's not how it works, you idiot!"

Both of the boys stand up, as though to wrestle with one another, and things start getting out of hand far faster than anyone could have anticipated. Alfred lands the first push, and then Matthew pushes him back with twice as much force, knocking him back a few steps.

"Hey!" Arthur interjects, at the end of his rope as he stands between them. "Enough!"

"You're a monster! You're an otter killer! A murderer!" Matthew screeches.

"Am not! You're blowing this out of proportion!"

" _Merde! Arthur!"_

They all freeze and turn their heads in the direction of the kitchen, stunned into silence by the ear-piercing French swear. At first, they think Francis is yelling at them to stop fighting, but Arthur hastily realizes that something's not right and goes running into the kitchen he's technically been exiled from. The boys go dashing after him.

"Francis? Are you—?" Arthur leaves the rest of his question unfinished as he sees Francis standing, dumbstruck, over a cutting board. He seems to have been chopping an onion and somehow sliced his left index finger, judging by how he has it wrapped in a dishtowel. Now, he's pale and sweating, clearly panicked by the damage.

Arthur rushes over to him, puts a soothing hand on his back, and says, "It's all right. Let me see it."

Carefully, he takes the dishtowel away from Francis and hisses when he sees the steady amount of blood flowing from an inch-long laceration across the pad of his husband's finger. It's deep.

"I haven't cut myself in years!"

"Accidents can happen to anyone," Arthur says, but as he's talking, his mind is already compiling all of the next steps that need to be taken to make sure the cut doesn't get infected. While his cooking skills may be nonexistent, his first aid skills from working in medicine for more years than he'd like to count are top-notch.

He gently takes hold of Francis's finger, dabs the dishtowel against it to clear away some of the oozing blood, and says, "I'm afraid this is going to need stitches."

The boys flock around them, and Alfred must sneak a peek at the cut because he says, "Oh, man, that looks really bad."

"P-Papa, are you okay? Do you need to sit down? Dad, he looks really pale," Matthew notes, and just as he states his observation, Francis's knees start to buckle.

Arthur catches him by positioning one hand on his waist and the other under one of his shoulders. "Alfred, help me walk him to the couch. Matthew, turn off the stove as well as the oven."

The boys don't need to be given orders twice. They do exactly as he says, and soon, they get Francis situated comfortably on the couch. He's still conscious—just dizzy—and Arthur keeps pressure on the cut with the now soiled dishtowel.

"Just stay calm. It's nothing that can't be fixed," Arthur tells Francis reassuringly, offering him a little smile, and it's hard to believe the two of them could ever be capable of bickering over having access to the kitchen now.

"Do we have to take him to the ER?" Alfred asks nervously, kneeling beside the couch and rocking back and forth. "Dad, you're the doctor here. Do something."

"I think I have all of the supplies I need to stitch it up myself," Arthur announces, quelling everyone's fears. "Hopefully, we can spare your papa a two-hour long wait in the emergency room. I'm going to go and get a few things. Keep him company, boys."

Feud now forgotten, Alfred and Matthew start being civil toward one another for their papa's sake. They finally look one another in the eyes, and Alfred twists his mouth into a grin, trying to lighten the mood.

"You know, I don't think we've ever had a boring Christmas around here," he says with a laugh, blue eyes twinkling as he meets Francis's gaze and tries to bolster his spirits. "Never a dull moment, huh?"

Matthew nods his head in agreement and also smiles. "Don't worry, Papa. In a couple of years, we'll look back and laugh at this."

"I don't feel like laughing right now," Francis says with a small groan once he sees Arthur come down the stairs and walk over with a box of medical supplies. "Arthur, I think I'd rather have a bleeding finger for the rest of my life than endure whatever you're about to do to me."

Arthur clicks his tongue as he sits beside Francis's sprawled out body and sets the box down. "Oh, hush. It's going to be fine. Give me your hand."

" _Mon amour_ , please don't make this any more traumatic than it's already been."

"I'll try not to," Arthur jokes as he's pulling on a pair of gloves. "Before I do anything, I'm going to numb your finger, all right?"

"Which involves a needle, I'm sure," Francis replies with another groan.

"Unfortunately, yes. Turn your head the other way. Don't look."

"Dad, telling him not to look is just going to freak him out even more," Alfred says.

"Everyone look away. I don't want anyone else getting lightheaded," Arthur instructs sternly, narrowing his eyes at Alfred in particular because he knows the boy is going to panic as soon as he sees him prep the needle. "Francis, I'm going to give you an injection of some lidocaine. You'll feel a sting, but it'll dissipate within a few seconds, okay?"

Francis swallows thickly and screws his eyes shut. "Do what you must."

"All right, take a deep breath for me and hold still," Arthur orders before carefully pushing the needle into his husband's finger.

"Ack! _Salaud!"_

"What's that mean?" Alfred asks, turning to Matthew for an answer.

Matthew smirks, well-versed in French, unlike his brother. "Bastard."

"I may be a bastard, but I'm a bastard who's going to save you a trip to the hospital," Arthur huffs, managing to stay concentrated despite Francis's complaints. "It'll feel better in a moment…The worst part is over. Your finger should be going numb now. Let me know when you lose all feeling in it."

Francis still has his eyes squeezed shut as he moans, "I'll never be able to chop onions again. I've learned my lesson."

"You just have to be more careful in the future."

Arthur must admit that it's rather ironic that although Francis was the one lecturing him earlier today about staying out of the kitchen for his own safety, he winded up with an injury of his own. In all of the years Francis has cooked for their family, he's never had an accident like this, but really, it was bound to happen, and naturally, it had to happen on Christmas.

There is a silver-lining to all of this—the boys have stopped fighting. Arthur can pride himself in knowing that he and Francis did a good job raising them if they're able to come together in times of need, even when they don't always see eye-to-eye. Still, he plans to scold the boys for their previous behavior, and he's going to have to get them to apologize to one another. Maybe once Francis's finger has been tended to, they can still have a wonderful Christmas.

"I'm going to clean the wound out now. You shouldn't feel any pain, but you might feel some wetness," Arthur warns before he uses some sterile saline solution to rinse the area. Francis doesn't let out any yelps or grimaces, so the lidocaine must be working.

When that's done, he prepares the sutures, reminds Francis and the boys not to watch, and starts closing the laceration. It only takes four stitches to get the job done, and then, he cuts off the rest of the thread with surgical scissors and places a bandage over the area so Francis doesn't have to look at the injury and feel sick at the sight of it again.

"Finished. Now just leave it alone, and don't touch any more knives for now. If you don't trust me to help you with dinner, then at least let the boys lend you a hand. Let's try not to have any more disasters today."

Francis finally opens his eyes again, lets out a long sigh, and gives Arthur a kiss. "Thank you for rescuing me. I can always count on you."

"Consider it a Christmas gift," Arthur says, grinning. "How does it feel?"

"Much better."

"Good, if it starts bothering you, let me know…Boys, I want to have a word with you both."

And now that the crisis has been dealt with, Alfred and Matthew have the sense to look embarrassed and ashamed. Matthew lets out an awkward cough while Alfred twiddles his thumbs and stares at the carpet. They both refuse to look at each other again, and Arthur knows he's going to have to be the mediator to clear the air between them.

"Francis, rest for a few more minutes," Arthur says before he regards the boys and motions for them to follow him into the dining room. "Boys, come along."

Sheepishly, Alfred and Matthew drag their feet into the dining room, looking much younger than they are, and seat themselves at opposite ends of the table while Arthur stands by the middle.

"We've discussed this before, but you both need to learn how to keep work out of your personal affairs and relationships. Your behavior toward one another today was inexcusable, especially considering that it's Christmas. This is not how brothers should be acting toward one another, and I'd like an apology from both of you. I'd also like you to apologize to one another," Arthur lectures, hands on his hips.

"Sorry, Dad," they mumble in unison, and Arthur nods his head, forgiving them.

"Now, to each other. Alfred, you can go first."

Alfred adjusts his Santa hat so that it stops slipping down the length of his forehead and says, "I'm sorry, Matt. I know you're worried about the environmental impact of the oil rig, and I hear you, really, even though I see things a little differently."

Matthew purses his lips and seems to struggle with formulating an apology, so Arthur gives him another firm look, which seems to do the trick. "I'm sorry for calling you a sea otter murderer. While I'll never agree with your corporate viewpoints, I won't bring them up or personally hold them against you."

"Thanks, Matt," Alfred says a little teasingly.

Matthew grunts and shrugs his shoulders. "Whatever. Let's not talk about it anymore and just put in the past. I'll see you in court."

"Oh, I see, so we're just gonna wait until we can take this outside? Bring it, bro. Bring it."

"You don't stand a chance. I'm going to win the case."

"I wouldn't be so confident if I were you, Mattie."

Arthur crosses his arms over his chest in exasperation and shouts, "Boys! What did I say? It's Christmas, and you're both going to get along whether you want to or not because your papa spent six hours in the kitchen today and nearly cut his finger off to make this day special for you both, so the _least_ you could do is be a bit more appreciative of one another by behaving!"

"Sorry," Matthew mumbles again, but there's a competitive glare in his eyes that neither Alfred nor Arthur miss.

Alfred glares back, as though to say, "I'll take you on," but that's the end of that, and they agree to a temporary ceasefire, much to Arthur's relief. Matthew helps Francis with dinner, and Alfred keeps Arthur out of the kitchen by distracting him with some small talk in the living room, so it seems as though everything starts going back to normal.

But then, everything changes when it's time for them to open their presents after dinner. Alfred opens his gift from Matthew and discovers that it's a stuffed animal—a sea otter to be specific, and that's when the fighting breaks out again, and Arthur is at wit's end. While Alfred and Matthew continue arguing about legal jargon and state statutes, Arthur turns to Francis, gently takes hold of his left hand—the hand with the injured finger—and says, "Merry Christmas, frog. Next year, we'll book a cruise for Christmas and Skype call the boys instead."

Francis chuckles and wiggles his stitched up finger. "Merry Christmas and _oui_ , maybe you're right."

"Do we still have any of those _palmiers_ you baked?"

"There should be a few in the kitchen…Are you admitting that you like them?"

"They're edible."

Francis gives him a flat look.

"Oh, you know they're delicious. You don't need my validation."

"Next Christmas, we're going out for dinner," Francis finally decides.

"Okay. Whatever you'd like...Can I cook next year?"

Francis chokes on the air in his lungs.

"I'll take that as a no."


End file.
